Monday, April 16, 2007

Review of ADP---

"Just why do they say," Tori Amos ponders on her latest effort, American Doll Posse, "have a nice day anyway?" On a political scale, there's relatively little to smile about these days, of which Amos is well aware, and yet, she's managed to put out her most raucous, infectiously foot-tapping, and pleasingly eclectic record to date. So what gives?

Well, in many ways, American Doll Posse plays like the album Amos has been trying to make for the past seven years. In 2001, she released the much publicized but little-heard StrangeLittleGirls, an album of covers, all originally performed by men about women, with Amos dressing up in character for the album artwork and assuming the tracks' absent (and at times, totally imagined) female voices. Aside from a chilling reading of Eminem's horrific exercise in domestic violence "'97 Bonnie and Clyde" and a soaring, original-besting rendition of Joe Jackson's "Real Men," the album's conceptual jig was up before it even hit record shelves. Curiously enough, though, her press comments about the inspiration to cover Slayer's "Raining Blood"--she likened the track's imagery to a "big juicy vagina raining blood" all over the Taliban's minions--seemed oddly prophetic given that the album was released on September 18, 2001.

In 2002, Amos released Scarlet's Walk, an "on the road" opus which had Amos singing through the vessel of a character named Scarlet, a multi-layered metaphor for the flame-haired singer and the bloodline of America's upsetting history. Though the album, beautiful in its organic simplicity, managed to achieve the consistency of the "sonic narrative" Amos had intended (not to mention the impressive musical double entendre between politics and personal relationships woven into tracks such as "Strange" and "Crazy"), it lacked the edge of records past.

2005 saw the simultaneous release of Amos' biography Piece by Piece and The Beekeeper, an album that, despite some memorable melodies and almost-great tracks, saw Amos floating into the safer waters of adult contemporary. But even on the paint-by-numbers balladry of "Sleeps with Butterflies," Amos' lyrical delivery and metaphorical imagery would prove too sore a thumb for radio and see her greatest commercial failure in terms of record sales. Regardless, the winking, fierce character studies she had so immersed herself in years earlier remained strong on tracks such as the Mary Magdalene epic "Marys of the Sea" and the mournful composite voices of mothers and wives losing their children and husbands to war in "Mother Revolution."

Now, with American Doll Posse, Amos seems to have come to a new turning point only hinted at in past offerings: collaborating with herself. Amos describes the album as a novel told through the perspective of five distinct characters--Isabel, Santa, Pip, Clyde, and Tori--all born of Greek mythology, the "dismembered feminine re-membered." Accordingly, Amos is again dressing for the role, even taking her posse out on tour (each night, a different member of the posse will open the show and "Tori" will assume performance duties about one-third into the set). There's more to this concept--a 36 page booklet, liner notes distinguishing character vocals, individual blogs--but strangely enough, when the music begins, the bold contrivance (regardless of how creative or irrelevant one may argue it to be) of the concept just fades away. And what we're left with is what will likely be considered by fans and critics alike her best album since 1998's from the choirgirl hotel. And though it may appear that Amos is trying to distance herself from the more blatantly political spats of the mournful "Yo, George" ("Is this just the madness of King George?/Yo, George/you have the whole nation on all fours") and the anti-war anthem album closing of "Dark Side of the Sun" ("How many young men/have to lay down/their life/and their love/of their woman/for some sick promise/of a Heaven?"), American Doll Posse plays, oddly enough, like the most autobiographical album of Amos' career.

"Teenage Hustling," a thunderous blend of Queen-esque vocals and shrieking electric guitar over Amos' own accusatory, banshee cries of "You better know/I'm at your door," recalls her early days of playing gay bars in Washington DC under the watchful eye of minister father. It is Amos' response to the hypocritical church crowd and their "dirty dealings" which transitions and travels decades later and ends with Amos lashing out at the record executives who would rather "skank around with...talentless trash." It's an unexpected and effective track and it sets the album's grungier tone. Tracks like "Code Red" and the maniacally sensual "Body and Soul"--with its thumping drums, incendiary bass line, and and menacing chorus, bound to be canonized as a classic track in her catalog--remind us of Amos' innate ability to simultaneously punch her listener in the gut and blanket him with goosebumps. There's an urgency to these songs, a gutteral, driving force that hasn't been present in Amos' music for some time.

There's also a fractured sensibility to the songs on Posse. On several tracks, such as "Beauty of Speed," "Almost Rosey," and the lulling dancebeat-infused lament of "Bouncing off Clouds"--there's something off about the production, something unpredictable about where the arrangement is going. This might be considered faint praise to most, but in Amos' case, coming off of the extreme razzle dazzle polish of her previous two records, it's exciting to hear her voice trail off under the bouncing wail of guitars, the kitchen-sink drum work, and even the dramatic sweeping brass and quartet sections offered on the tracks "Programmable Soda" and "Girl Disappearing."

That's not to say it's all good, though. Amos, who has proven herself an able balladeer over the years, seems hellbent on including a mellow lovers' farewell on each track and, though she's gotten it right in the past on tracks such as "Baker Baker," "Hey Jupiter," and "Your Cloud," the wistful "Roosterspur Bridge," in spite of a chorus that bests any Top 40 hit out there right now ("Sometimes I think/I think I understand/the fear in the boy/the fire in the man/sometimes I see the wonder in your eyes/That and you leaving/I have memorized"), the track feels forced and certainly of subpar quality when compared to the weight of the album's more impressive tracks. The same goes for "Big Wheel," in which Amos declares herself a "M-I-L-F" and informs a certain someone (a past lover? an old manager? a bastard record suit?) that "baby I don't need your cash/Mama got it all in hand now." It's catchy, certainly, but it feels unfinished, somewhat ill-structured. Furthermore, its vocal delivery is surprisingly subdued for such a sassy number, and as both a single and proper album opener, it provides a misleading tone for the rest of the album. In fact, Amos achieves a similar atmosphere in the sleazy, bar shuffle of "You Can Bring Your Dog," which prompts one to wonder why such two like creatures exist a mere few track skips apart?

The real treasure of the album, though, exists in "Digital Ghost," a Beatles-esque sobber in which she sighs, "The you I knew is fading away." The piano line is exquisite, the electronic and acoustic drum work coupling with fuzzy guitar and bass lines that compliment Amos' mulit-layered vocal harmonies like silk to the skin. It's one of the album's less flashy production numbers and manages to prove the most effective (which may, in the end, say something about less being more for an artist of such immense natural talent, but that's best saved for another article). It is with this track that it becomes clear Amos is not only paying homage to the musical influences that have always driven her, but also to her own past conceptual markings. American Doll Posse may not wholly satisfy all members of Amos' real posse--her rabid fanbase--but, whether you like your Tori with strings and whispery vocals, or with pulsating drums and soaring, seething vocals, or with whimsical metaphor and politely shocking lyrics, all respective members will likely agree that, after some misguided dips into the shallow end of the pop pool, Amos has reemerged, gliding on the crest of the wave, fists ready for the fight.

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